


if you told me to

by cheeseandpop



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheeseandpop/pseuds/cheeseandpop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a country singer from waxahachie, texas. louis is a bartender in dallas. niall is in a serious relationship with a banjo. zayn plays fiddle and liam has a tendency to curtsy around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith To Fall Back On

**Author's Note:**

> this in no way is based on reality, so don't interpret it as such. it is really important that everyone understands none of this is real. 
> 
> also, harry's songs in this fic are hunter hayes' songs and they are all golden

When Harry moved to Nashville four years ago, he had never expected to become a musician. He never planned on playing his own songs and he never planned on playing them at The Bluebird Café. He had become more than a proper noun in Nashville. Critics attended his performances and wrote what Harry considered generous appraisals of his writing and guitar techniques and it had mattered. They made him count and soon he was playing a gig every week (sometimes twice) at renowned venues all across the famous city. He was known there. He was (and he is ever so reluctant to admit it) famous.

But you write one male pronoun into a love song and suddenly doors start closing.

Some people were worse than others obviously, some were kind and accepting and offered him a gig or two a month, but he no longer felt the warm embrace of Nashville’s arms. It became more and more difficult to afford rent or even new guitar strings. The city was expensive and it was getting colder it seemed, despite the summer heat.

Time stretched a year before Harry called Niall and asked—begged—him to help him escape. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be anymore.

So when Niall showed up in his beat up ’97 Chevy at Harry’s door, there was nothing but sun in his face and hope on the horizon. He was getting away. He was going home.

  
  


_________________________

“Paruresis.”

“God bless you.”

“Paruresis,” Niall repeats with emphasis.

“Listen, you can repeat that all you want but I will still have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Public piss syndrome, Harry. That’s what you have. Paruresis is public piss syndrome.”

Harry’s white knuckles his grip on the steering wheel.

“I assure you, Niall, I do not have paruralsis.”

“Paruresis.”

“Whatever. Point being I don’t have it.”

Niall scoffs, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of man, and my grandpa had trouble peeing in public.”

“Thank you, Niall. That helps a lot.”

“Of course. So there’s whole thing here about treatment and it talks a lot about breathin-“

“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, NIALL I DO NOT HAVE TROUBLE WITH MY DICK.”

A herd of cattle blurs in the peripheral. Driving through Arkansas on an early morning should be a peaceful experience filled with thoughtful introspection. In no circumstance should pissing be a topic of discussion. Harry says as such and Niall shrugs and glances out the window at the blurs of golden grass.

“All I’m saying is maybe it’s time you get some help.”

“I don’t have a probl—“

“Maybe we could get you laid..” Niall ruminates as he picks at the worn leather of the seat beneath him. “I could help with that, man. I mean I know I’m not on that team, but I would do it! I would! For you!”

“I’m going to drive into that tree.”

“Harry.”

“That is a great tree.”

“Harry Styles. I am being serious.”

“So am I. Niall if you don’t stop offering your body to me, I will find another toe-head to play the banjo for me.”

There’s a moment of silence save for the drone of the four spinning tires against the warming road.

“Alright, I’ll lay off. I’m just worried about you. And your dick. But mostly you. I’m invested in your well-being, alright? And that includes noticing how long it takes you to pee in public, or offering myself to you.”

Despite the discomfort, Harry finds the truth—the love—in what Niall is saying. He wonders if anything could be as warm as the sun as he looks at his friend of seven years and finds the sun dim and cold in comparison. Of course Niall is only interested in taking care of him, because that is all Harry is interested in.

These thoughts are hard to pronounce so Harry punctuates his wordless sentence with a tender pat on Niall’s face. Niall smiles into it but it is quickly turned into a look of shock and dismay as Harry knocks his worn Dallas Cowboys hat off his head.

“You bastard,” Niall grumbles.

“Don’t know why you support them anyway. Can’t win to save their asses.”

Niall looks offended as he says that any true Texan supports the Cowboys. It’s out of moral obligation.

Harry laughs and eases his grip on the wheel. Things are good.

  
  


They’re still driving when Niall insists they stop in Little Rock so he can take a leak and get some sunflower seeds.

It’s a long drive from Nashville to Dallas but they’re making good time so Harry pulls the truck towards the marked exit. There’s a Love’s and those are usually pretty clean considering their C-list gas station status. Niall practically tumbles out of the car as it slows to a stop. Harry watches as Niall runs towards the entrance, hands already on his fly as if he were going to pee right there in the parking lot.

Harry chuckles to himself and wonders how Niall could possibly be so easy about this. About going back home after so many years… even if just for a while. They grew up together, but Harry remembers things differently than Niall does. It wasn’t harder for Harry—living in a small town, being the way he is, etc.—just different. He is comfortable with himself, happy even. In his heart, he knows that growing up in Waxahachie helped him become who he is today. But going home is scary.

His hands are shaking nervously on the wheel when Niall returns, mouth full of seeds.

“Hey, I didn’t know if you wanted anything so I got you some Arizona anyway—what’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Thanks for the tea.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re gonna love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harry swallows his nerves with a cool drink of ice tea and turns the ignition.

“Thataboy! Now let’s go!”

He sees why he brought Niall along.

  
  


When they finally get to Dallas, it is well past midnight. The Motel 6 is simultaneously the least and most welcoming sight both of them have ever seen.

“I don’t care if I sleep with cockroaches and month old pizza smell as long as I can sleep,” Harry putters wearily. There’s a grunt of agreement as Niall hefts the suitcases from the bed of the Chevy. He nods his head towards the cabin of the truck, alerting Harry to get their instruments before he locks up.

The guitar’s weight is familiar even in the bulky casing and Harry is comforted to have it in his hands after such a long drive. He takes Niall’s banjo out as well and sets it against the tire

“I’ll go check us in—WHAT THE HELL, HARRY. GET MARIANNE OFF THE GROUND. SHE IS A LADY.”

Niall rushes Harry and immediately swaddles his banjo in his Dorito stained shirt. “You bastard.”

“Sorrryyyy.”

Niall scoffs and makes toward the light of the motel lobby.

Harry fears this will not be forgotten as he lets his numb legs carry him all the way to the polyester bed he will call home for the next three months.

 

 


	2. In A Song

It takes a while (5 days, 3 hours, and 27 minutes) before Harry finds a bar that is willing to let him perform. It’s a saloon in downtown Dallas in the historic Deep Ellum District and there’s almost always crawfish boiling there. Adair’s Saloon is a nice place, despite its sticker- and marker-marked walls (or perhaps because of them); the small space seems big when you’ve had enough to drink and cozy when you haven’t. So when Harry showed up at their door asking if they were looking for a band, he was afraid of the bruise the slamming door would leave on his ass.

Still, he joked and charmed and played his songs. When he left he had a contract on a napkin and a smile in his heart. He was going to perform again. After a year. He was performing.

The giddiness doesn’t die down until he steps out his and Niall’s motel room and into the gray, Texas air. He doesn’t have to look at the Weather Channel app on his phone to know that it’s going to rain. He forgot (foolishly) during his years in Tennessee how fickle the weather can be in the godforsaken state of Texas. He hopes that enough people show up tonight.

“Maybe rain makes people sad enough to drink more,” Harry mutters to himself as he gently places his guitar in the passenger’s seat. Miguel—his guitar—is the only true source of permanency in his life. And normally he would feel bad thinking that because shouldn’t he be saying that about Niall? But he knows that Niall feels the same about Marianne, his banjo of 10 years, and food. So. No remorse here.

He makes his way through the brightly lit Dallas streets until he finds himself on Commerce at Adair’s. Breathing deeply through his nose, Harry whispers a prayer and shuts off the ignition. He’s going to be fine. This is where he started, right? Dallas? People will still like him? Do they know about Nashville? Do they know about Harry in Nashville? Whatever. He’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.

Harry gets to the saloon early to set up, but still he is surprised how different the bar looks at night. It seems more alive—beer and whiskey and music coursing through its fluorescent veins. It’s going to be fine.

“Welcome to Adair’s,” a reedy voice calls from down the bar. “Sit wherever.”

It makes Harry stutter in his step and pigeon his feet. Maybe they don’t recognize him.

“Oh, I-uh, I’m Harry?”

“You sure?”

“Y-yes? Yes. Yeah.”

A man’s head pops up from behind the counter. The source of the voice.

“Spectacular. What can I get you?”

Harry stares at him until his eyes register everything, brain catalogues this person he will be encountering on a regular basis for the next three months. It’s not a bad face actually. He’s kind of a dime. From the top, a head of honey brown hair—feathered out long, blue eyes that are dark in the dim light of the bar, a sharp nose resolving into an even sharper mouth. Harry thinks he might be Peter Pan if he shaved the scruff from his shapely jawline.

Peter Pan clears his throat, stirring Harry from speculation. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I-um, I’m Harry. Harry Styles,” He lifts his guitar case into view.

Peter quirks a brow and his features settle into a look of understanding.

“You’re the band.”

Harry nods, perhaps too eagerly.

Picking up a tumbler, Peter Pan uses his shirt to wipe the rim dry. He holds it up to the light to inspect it until he notices Harry is still standing before him as if asking what to do now. Rolling his eyes, he sets down the glass and casually jerks his head towards the stage (which, more aptly put, is less of a stage and more of a floor clearing).

“Over there.”

“Thanks again, um,” Harry says squinting in the dim light for a name tag.

“Louis.”

“Louis,” Harry repeats, tasting it. “Like the King?”

“The one and only.”

“Weren’t there eighteen of them?”

Harry doesn’t get an answer because when he blinks, Louis isn’t there, he’s disappeared under the counter.

 

Despite the rain, soon the bar is packed—the narrow spaces between the bar and walls are crammed with bodies and the whole place seems to radiate life. It’s too early for everyone to be wasted so Harry figures he better start soon, but honestly he doesn’t know if he should just walk up to the mic or wait for something. Just as he’s thinking this, the man from earlier (Louis?) blurs past him and practically slams into the mic stand.

“Alright y’all let’s give it up for Harold Styles. He’s going to be here a while so let’s hope he doesn’t disappoint,” He looks at Harry, “Ready?”

Harry shrugs and walks toward him, guitar in hand. Halfway there, he nudges Louis and says as quietly as he can, “It’s Harry. Just Harry.”

Louis’ face contorts into the Cheshire cat and he says in a rough, vaguely English voice, “Alright then, Just Harry, you better get up there.”

“Was that a Harry Potter reference?”

He doesn’t get an answer yet again because Louis has disappeared into the crowd of people leaving Harry alone at the mic.

Lights shine in his eyes and things spin despite only having one beer. There’s a pause, a blurry haze of time before Harry sinks back into his skin and puts the strap of the guitar around his body.

“I’m just gonna start out with something y’all know. It’s by a man named Cash.”

There are a few whoops as Harry plucks out the first few notes of “Ring of Fire”.

_Love is a burning thing_   
_And it makes a fiery ring._   
_Bound by wild desire_   
_I fell into a ring of fire._

_I fell into a burning ring of fire,_   
_I went down, down, down as the flames went higher_   
_And it burns, burns, burns,_   
_The ring of fire, the ring of fire._

_The taste of love is sweet_   
_When hearts like ours meet._   
_I fell for you like a child,_   
_Oh, but the fire went wild._

_I fell into a burning ring of fire,_   
_I went down, down, down as the flames went higher_   
_And it burns, burns, burns,_   
_The ring of fire, the ring of fire._

When he’s done, people are clapping. Clapping! And better yet, Harry feels that rush again… the one he hasn’t felt in so long. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

The next few songs are familiar to him. They are what he played before things went wrong in Nashville, but he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about how good the notes feel under his fingertips and how strong his voice feels singing the words of his favorite songs.  

_Oh, my heart skips a beat_   
_When we walk down the street_   
_I feel the tremblin' in my knees_   
_And just to know you're mine_   
_Until the end of time_   
_Makes my heart skip a beat_

He decides after about three songs to test the waters at one of his own songs. Grabbing the mic in his shaking hands, he looks out at the crowd again. He asks them with his eyes to love him, but with his words, “This next song is something I wrote. It’s, uh, close to the heart. I hope y’all like it.”

The guitar licks glide through his hands. This is good. This is natural.

_It’s alright, is this goodbye_   
_Won’t hurt me for too long,_   
_I’ll be fine on my own_   
_It’ll take some time_   
_But I know that I_   
_I can find where I belong,_   
_And I’ll find it in a song_

_There's songs about freedom, searching for new love,_   
_How ignorance is bliss_   
_Yeah, I know that I’m not the only fool who’s been_   
_Hurt just like this_   
_Yeah, songs about making honest mistakes,_   
_And heartaches I’ve gone through_   
_Yeah, then I’ll forgive,_   
_I won’t have to forget_   
_All the good things about you_

_Well I'm sure if I had_   
_The chance to go back_   
_I'd change more than I should_   
_But knowing I can't is helping my chances_   
_Of moving on for good_   
_Now I'm not saying_   
_There won't be too many lonely nights_   
_But the songs that I choose getting over you_   
_Help me make it out alive_

The chord holds and his head is down as he watches the strings reverberate through the silence. Because it is silent. Why is it silent? Harry looks up only to see a thousand eyes staring back at him. Did they hate it? He should’ve played another Cash, Brooks, anyone but himself. Shit. Shitshitshit.

Harry is seriously considering self-immolation when he hears a broken “Whoop” from the back of the bar.

Then there are more and people are clapping and yelling and Harry is shitting his favorite Wranglers. They liked it. They liked it! Wait until Niall hears about this… Hell, wait until some roadkill hears about this. Harry is elated and he can’t believe he almost let this go.

It’s all going to be fine.

 

The last of the patrons are leaving when Harry finally sits at the bar and relaxes as best as he can into the metal seat. He’s swirling his finger through a puddle of condensation when he hears someone clear their throat. He looks up to see Louis.

“Well?” Harry asks.

“Well what?”

“How do you think I did? Did you like it?”

Louis sets to work on wiping the counter, lifting Harry’s crossed arms in the process.

“I’d say objectively yes, you were good. A solid performance. Personally, however, I would not pay to hear you sing Madison Square Garden.”

“…Um? Thank—you?”

“It’s subjective. Country music. Never really cared for it.”

Harry’s eyes widen.

“But you—“

“Live in Texas? Yeah, I know. I’m not the only one. It’s like saying I have to love the Cowboys because I live in Dallas.”

Harry snorts at that, thinking of his conversation with Niall all those days ago. What would he say? Probably nothing Harry thinks, He’d probably just walk out.

“Anyway, can I get you anything? It’s on the house.”

Harry knows he probably shouldn’t. He drove here anyway. And yet, “Just a Bud is fine. Thanks.”

Louis considers Harry for a moment and then reaches for an icy bottle, sliding it gently across the counter. It reaches Harry’s palm and it feels good already, even without the alcohol.

He takes a long pull from the neck, closing his eyes and enjoying the cool liquid as it eases down his throat. His eyes open and he sees Louis staring at him, wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape and wonders what he did to make him look like that. There’s a second of speedy recovery and Louis clears his throat again.

“So,” he says, resuming his work on the counter, pushing the cotton washcloth back and forth, “that was some sad shit you played. You can’t be older than 21.”

“’M 22,” Harry says—the mouth of the bottle resting on his lips.

“Right so I guess what I’m asking is why the sad shit? What happened to you that makes you feel the need to sing Patsy Cline in the prime of your life?”

Harry thinks about this for a minute. There’s something about Louis that makes Harry want to tell him everything. What he sang at his third grade talent show and every show after. The first time he really looked at a boy and felt something inside. Nashville. But he holds back.

“Love.”

Louis snorts.

“Sorry, I was not expecting that. But yeah, I suppose love is messy. It’s a lot like life that way.”

“No shit,” Harry mutters as he glares down the throat of the half-empty Bud.

They’re both quiet for a minute. Louis working on his cleaning and Harry, his beer.

Harry breaks the silence.

“I—uh—tried Nashville for a while. It kind of didn’t work out.”

“It’s hard out there for a pimp.”

“Wha—? No? I’m not a—“

“Relax,” Louis grins, pointing at his own face. “Joking.”

“Oh, right, right. Sorry.”

“What happened to Nashville? Or did Nashville happen to you?”

“I kind of… didn’t fit… in, I think. Um, there were a lot of people that didn’t seem to uh –support—my subject matter.”

“What the hell could you sing about that is worse than “A Boy Named Sue”?”

Harry ignores that.

“Love.”

“You are not the first person to sing about love. Why is it so different?”

“I never sang about women.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

Harry looks up at Louis, brow furrowed.

“What do you mean ‘That’s it?’?”

Louis shrugs, “What I mean is that’s it? You let that stop you?”

“Hey!” Harry’s voice raises, “It was—is a lot harder than you think!”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks.”

Harry groans exasperatedly. Louis smirks and leans down to make eye contact with Harry.

“What I’m saying is, you gotta decide your battles. You get to decide. And this is one you should fight. Kid, you can either live your life the way other people tell you or you can tell them to fuck off. You make yourself. No one else. You.”

Harry looks up and sees Louis eyes burning with something and he thinks he wants to be consumed by it. He holds his gaze for a while until the flames start to peter out. Louis takes his hands off the counter and wipes them on his shirt.

Sighing, he says, “Need anything before I lock up? Another Bud?”

Harry wonders if Louis has been trained to bridge conversation like that. He shakes his head.

“No, I have to drive and I, uh, I think I kind of want to remember this.”

He says the last part so quietly he doesn’t think anyone but himself hears.

 

 


	3. Rainy Season

Most of his nights pass by like this—filled with beer and music and thinly veiled desperation. It feels good to be home, experiencing everything he missed. There are a lot. Certainly, most of them are food related. At least from Niall’s perspective.

“I’m tellin’ you, Harry. There is nothing in this world that will ever come between me and peach cobbler.”

“You can get that anywhere, Niall.”

“This is where you are wrong, you poor naïve boy. Only in Texas can cobbler reach its ultimate state of existence. There is a divine plane on which Texas peach cobbler exists. None can enter save Texas peach cobbler.”

“You know that most peaches come from Georgia, right? This isn’t a wholly Texan thing.”

With that, Niall reaches across the table and takes Harry’s fork, laden with cobbler, from his hand.

“You don’t deserve this,” he says as he fills his mouth with the rest of Harry’s portion.

“And I’ll have you know: Fredericksburg has wonderful peaches,” he spits with crumbs flying. Harry watches him.

All Harry can do is watch. Or at least that’s how he feels. Being home is great, but Harry can’t help but think he’s stagnant. Sure, he likes playing at Adair’s a few times a week, he likes the attention and he likes when customers bribe him with drinks to play a Top 40 song.

But no amount of free drinks can sooth the ever present itch. He knows he can’t stay hidden forever. He should go back to Nashville. Face the music, as it were. Louis tells him this. A lot. Not that Louis cares, though. Louis tells him this as well.

“You know, Louis,” Harry says, “You’ve given me better advice than any therapist ever could’ve.”

Louis shrugs, “Bartender, therapist… It’s just semantics really. The only difference is the pay.”

Harry grins, dimples growing strong. He’s going to miss Louis and his whip-smart wit. He doesn’t want to leave him, he considers him a friend. And maybe once or twice he’s thought of more than friendship (he’s not going to think about the dreams that made him wake up in a damp bed). But he knows that if he stayed, Louis would probably always think of him in that aloof way he deals with everyone he encounters.

Harry would want more; an all-encompassing, consuming love and he doesn’t even know if Louis has a boyfriend. Or… a girlfriend? How did that never come up? It’s frustrating and even more so because Harry can’t put these things—these feelings—into words, or at least words without music.

And when he’s walking out of Adair’s Saloon on his last night in town, all he can manage is: “I feel guilty leaving without having converted you.”

Louis looks over his shoulder from where he’s wiping down glasses and raises an eyebrow. He turns around to face Harry, swinging the small towel over his narrow shoulder and leaning his hands on the bar.

“There is nothing on this earth that could make me like country music.”

Harry smiles, watching as Louis flicks a lock of hair from his eyes before meeting his gaze as if challenging him. Taking the bite, Harry mirrors Louis’ stance.

“Maybe I’ll write you a song. Maybe then you’ll listen. You think?”

Louis considers him a moment, smiles, and says, “Maybe.”

 

 


	4. What You Gonna Do (When I'm Gone)

Harry writes an album for Louis. Mostly, anyway. He started work on it when he was in Dallas obviously, but most of it was written in his head on the drive back to Nashville. Thoughts of Louis are inseparable from the great Texan skies and fields of rolling grass and the taste of sweet tea from the Texaco station on I-60. His tendency to dote on crushes manifests itself in five new songs about finding love in a dark place and asking someone to be a light. He practices them every night, all night, even when his throat is raw and sore from allergies or from trying to talk Niall out of a food coma. There are new calluses on his fingers but in his early-morning haze, Harry thinks they look like Louis. Maybe they just remind him of Louis? Something about correlation and causation runs through his mind, but it’s incomplete. Harry needs to sleep.

When it finally does happen, sleep, it’s short lived. He dreams too much. Harry wakes up in a stupor only to find his face smeared with the ink of his pen and his lyric notebook dog-eared into oblivion. The blur of his eyes and the fog of mind make him doubt everything he reads.

Well I've been searching for something true  
My heart says it must be you  
I'd love to fall and see it through  
But only if you told me to

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Harry mutters to his pillow, “He would never listen to this. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I am an idiot.”

He scribbles big, red X’s through everything and collapses into himself, his bed catching him. Nothing about being back in Nashville has been easy so far.

 

When he wakes the next morning, it is to a horrible ruckus that sounds like a dying goose. He finds Niall in their living room, looking mournfully out the sliding screen doors.

“What the hell was that noise?”

Niall jumps and turns to Harry, his eyes red rimmed and snot dribbling down his face.

“Niall?” Harry offers, reaching a hand out.

“Marianne is sick.”

Harry notices the nearly ancient banjo cradled in Niall’s lap.

“Wh—oh. Oh. Oh no, Niall. I’m sorry. What’s wrong with her?”

A sniffle.

“I-I don’t know, I don’t think she can be fixed. I’ve had her forever, Harry. What if I can’t play another banjo? What if she gives me the ability?”

“Niall, I know how important she is to you, but that is definitely not the case. I watched you learn banjo. You could play a banjo made out of a Kleenex box and rubber bands and it would still be beautiful.”

Harry hopes this will pull a smile out of his roommate. It doesn’t.

“Listen. Go put Marianne in her house.”

(Yes, the house is a case. Harry knows how childish this sounds, but anyone looking at Niall in his current state would say the same. This is a very delicate situation.)

“You go put her in her house and I will drive us to Classic and they can look her over. Give her, uh, medicine or… whatever.”

Niall sniffles again and looks up at Harry with searching eyes.

“Okay.”

Harry grins.

“Thataboy.”

The drive to The Classic Ax is quiet save for the whimpering sobs coming from the back where Niall insisted he sit.

“I can’t leave her back here alone, Harry. She’ll get scared.”

Externally, Harry nodded his wholehearted agreement. Internally, his eyes were strained from rolling too far back in his head.

Killing the ignition, Harry jumps out of the car and opens the backseat. Somehow, Niall managed to ride the whole way in the fetal position and still be buckled into his seatbelt. The compactability of his roommate never ceases to amaze Harry, but he pushes the thought from his mind as he unbuckles his emotionally compromised friend. Marianne’s been “sick” before, and this time is no exception; Harry must handle the situation delicately because Niall is a ticking bomb in regards to his precious banjo.

Harry enters the repair shop with Niall and Marianne cradled in his arms and is personally affronted by the man working behind the service counter. Surely, it is not a man? Perhaps a figment of Harry’s imagination, a mirage in the desert, or an obscure concept that allows for the existence of someone so intrinsically beautiful. Harry is contemplating his own mortality when he is stirred by the lilting melody of a fiddle being tuned.

“Howdy, welcome to Classic. Y’all let me know if y’need anything,” the man speaks while placing the fiddle gently under his chin.

Harry is enamoured by the soft qualities of his face, Like a debutante on the eve of cotillion, Harry thinks but the illusion is shattered by memories of his sister, Gemma, a real Belle, lighting up a cigarette in her tremendously poofy white ball gown in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. Harry gathers himself and remembers why he’s there.

“Thanks, actually we do have something you can help us with. Mari--my friend’s banjo is sic--broken. Could you take a look?”

The man looks inquisitively over at Niall and nods, gesturing for the banjo. He takes it out of the case and inspects it carefully. Plucking each of the six strings in turn, he winces at the discord and the buzzing emitting from the instrument.

His set mouth and furrowed brow denote that he has come to a conclusion.

“The wrapping on the B string is loose and the action is too high. You gotta check the bottom of the heel and the neck is pulled away a bit, but I can tighten that for you.”

Harry is impressed with the speed of his diagnosis and he manages to pull a face of professionalism, “How much will that cost?”

The man looks thoughtfully at Harry and says, “Not a thing. I’ll do it for free.”

There is a moment of shocked silence in the shop as the man’s words settle around them. Repairs like this can cost a pretty penny. Harry feels a need to inquire about ulterior motives, but dismisses it in favor of gratitude.

“Thank you. That means a lot. Seriously, thank you, uh… Sorry what’s your name?”

“Zayn.”

“I’m Harry and this sobbing mess is my roommate, Niall,” Harry gestures to the now recovering Niall.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Zayn asks, looking warily at Niall who has now taken out a bag of Doritos and started to munch on them while sniffling.

“Yeah. He eats when he’s happy.” Harry replies, shrugging. “He also eats when he’s sad, bored, or angry.”

Zayn chuckles lightly and turns to his work desk with Marianne in hand, nodding gently at the Old Crow Medicine Show song  playing on the radio above his head. Harry and Niall, who has stopped crying but not eating, take a seat by the door. Harry takes out his phone to check the time before pressing open the Notes app when a few lines of lyrics come to mind. Running his teeth over his bottom lip, he types without thinking about it too hard as a pair of blue eyes come to mind.

“All done!” Zayn says behind the counter, thin fingers wrapped around Marianne’s neck and a small smile gracing his features as Niall jumps out of his seat.

“Thanks, man.” Niall crows, arm going around Zayn’s shoulders and squeezing him to his body.

Harry watches the embrace with a smile because judging from his expression, Zayn is not used to hugs as payment for banjo repairs. Still, he feels guilt about ridding this man of a commision, no matter how handsome he is.

“Let Zayn go, Niall. I want to look for a new strap while we’re here.”

When Niall finally relents, there is a look of relief on Zayn’s face as if his lungs just started working again after being crushed. Harry doesn’t miss the little smile on Zayn’s face as he pulls Niall through the shop.

Walking past the picks, Harry turns to Niall and silently begs him to buy something.

“Look, Harry, I am not going to spend money if I don’t have to. It’s no skin off my nose. I mean, I figure I’ll probably be back in a week or so, asking for a whole new set of strings. They’ll get my money eventually.”

“You are the worst of humanity,” Harry mutters under his breath as he gets a pack of 12 guitar picks he definitely doesn’t need.

They look around for a while, listening to the trilling of Dolly Parton on the radio, until Niall announces he has to pee. As Niall scurries off, Harry makes his way to the register to pay for his bundle of merchandise (yes, he absolutely does need three capos). He drops them on the counter and Zayn lets out a breathy laugh.

“I didn’t expect you to buy the whole store when I fixed the banjo, but I’m not about to complain,” he says through a scruffy smile as he rings up the tuner Harry picked out.

Rubbing his neck, Harry sighs, “Is it that obvious?”

A squinty-eyed grin is his answer.

“I mean, you seem really nice, Zayn. I gotta make this up to you somehow.”

“Harry? It’s cool, I just figured, young artists like us can use all the help we can get when it comes to money.”

“You play? Banjo?”

Zayn smiles again, “And fiddle, and piano, and a little bit of drums. But Franny is my heart.”

“Franny?” Harry asks.

“My fiddle,” he says, reaching under the counter to retrieve the most beautiful fiddle Harry has ever seen. “I got her when I was 14 and I haven’t let her go since.”

“Niall’s been with Marianne for about ten years and I’ve had my guitar for six years, I reckon,” Harry says pensively.

Zayn laughs, “Longest relationship we’ll ever have.”

They’re still laughing when Niall joins them, zipping up his fly after he closes the door to the bathroom.

“So have you asked him yet, Harry?” He asks wiping the water from his hands on his jeans.

“Asked me what?”

“For your number,” Niall says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Red flashes before Harry’s eyes and he thinks there might be steam coming out of his ears. Glaring at Niall, Harry can’t help but think of a certain bartender back in Dallas. He doesn’t think he’s getting over that no matter how beautiful Zayn most certainly is.

“I’m not, I wouldn’t, I’m sorry, Niall just… He’s always trying to set me up, I’m sorry,” Harry sputters.

Zayn grins a toothy grin, “It’s alright. It happens sometimes. No harm done.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. Niall starts, “What do you mean ‘It happens’?”

“People come in here all the time and ask for my number like I sell G-strings instead of guitar strings,” he shrugs.

“That is plain awful,” Harry says sympathetically, “But it would be cool to have your number? I mean, we could all get together, play a few songs or something?”

Zayn looks pleased as he gets a business card off the register and scribbles on the back.

“Y’all call me whenever. It’d be great,” he says handing the card to Harry.

As he grabs his purchases and makes towards the door, Niall in tow, Harry can’t help but feel like something is starting. Just like his first show at Adair’s, it’s all gonna be ok.

 

 


	5. I Want Crazy

They get together a lot, the three of them. Harry shows them his songs and they play along, improvising solos and harmonizing with the melodies. They get good. Like, really good. So it comes as no surprise that they land their first gig after a successful audition. Harry was nervous, considering his past experience, but maybe all people needed was a handful of months to understand him. Still, they sing covers of songs when they go to perform because Harry isn’t ready yet.

“I don’t know why we can’t sing “If You Told Me To”, it’s a great song,” Niall says as he turns a tuning peg on Marianne.

Harry thinks of the lyrics he wrote.

_I don't wanna steal you away_

_Or make you change the things that you believe_

_I just wanna drink from the words you say_

_And be everything you need_

_Yeah I could be so good at loving you_

_But only if you told me to_

And Harry knows why they can’t sing it. He doesn’t want his feelings out there because he won’t be able to act on them and that’s scary. Even if he ever went back to Dallas, what are the chances that Louis still works at Adair’s? And that is the very least worrying of all the hypotheticals.

He can’t sing the song (or songs, for Christ’s sake) because what if someone hears them? What if Louis hears and he doesn’t like them? No. They are sticking to Cash, Parton, CCR; anyone and everyone but Styles.

This seems to work because soon the three of them are playing two to three venues a week, some of them at night. They get a lot of attention considering just months ago, Harry was gradually being scrubbed away from the face of Nashville’s music scene. People are better it seems, or maybe Harry is more desperate to forgive and is looking for acceptance in any way he can get it. Regardless, he finds a home with these boys, Niall with his affinity for fried things and Zayn with his casually graceful elegance. Niall calls them the Three Musketeers and the Three Amigos interchangeably, but Harry thinks that maybe they’re the Dixie Chicks (he’d never say it, though). They have an undeniable chemistry and it shows when they perform. So much so that when a well-tailored man approaches them with talk of a record deal, no one in the entire state of Tennessee is surprised.   

But success rhymes with stress for a reason. The three of them spend countless nights cutting and pasting together an album made of hearts and love and ‘97 Chevys. Harry even puts a few of his songs on there -- only the ones vague enough, they could be about anyone -- and he is happy for the first time in a really long while. When it’s all done and the album is making its way to the charts, they go out for a night and they drink to their success.

It ends sloppily, with Harry slurring on to Niall about how every song is about Louis and how he misses him.

“I mean every song, not just mine,” Harry drawls, placing a hand on his heart.

“We gotta go back, corderito. We gotta get you laid,” Niall nods resolutely.

“I don’t caaarreee about getting laid, Niaalll. I want him to love meee.”

“Who are we talking about?” Zayn asks, looking over the rim of his glass of whiskey.

“Bartender down in Dallas. Harry’s got the hots for him since last year. What’d’you say to a trip down to Texas, Zayn? For our boy?”

“I’m driving. Let’s go,” Zayn says while patting Harry on the back.

“We should probably sleep this off first.”

Harry is too far gone to know which one of them said that but he remembers falling asleep in a half-packed suitcase.

**********

 

Harry wakes up to a string of expletives and a speeding sky.

“You shit bastard! You can’t cut people off like that! Fuck you and your piece of shit Camaro.”

Harry’s body must’ve shifted in flight because he doesn’t remember falling asleep nuzzling Miguel’s case. The car jolts and he can hear the sound of Miguel’s strings ringing through the hollow of the instrument.

Sleepily, he says, “Hey, Niall, d’you mind swerving less. Miguel can’t take it and neither can I.”

“Oh Christ, he’s awake. Zayn, get him with the bat before he remembers where we’re going.”

“Wha--?” Harry mumbles, “WAIT, WHAT? WHERE ARE WE?”

“We’re going to the vet to get you fixed,” Niall croons in a saccharine voice.

“NIALL. WHERE ARE WE.”

“We’re almost to Little Rock,” Zayn says, adjusting his seatbelt.

“WHAT?”

“Little Rock,” Zayn repeats.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. WHAT I DON’T KNOW IS WHY YOU SAID IT.”

“Well, sweetheart. If you don’t stop yelling, I will turn this car around and head straight into the Mississippi River,” Niall says in a terrifyingly accurate impersonation of a soccer mom on the verge of a meltdown. It silences Harry.

Niall waits before speaking again.

“We are going to Dallas.”

“Wh--?”

“I will be waiting here if and when you decide to be quiet so I can explain.”

Harry doesn’t speak again.

“Great. We are going to Dallas and we are going to get you your man.”

“And promote our album,” Zayn adds.

“Yes, that too. Thank you, Zayn.”

“Sure.”

“But our main prerogative is that you write a happy song for once in your goddamn life,” Niall nods his head once decisively as he looks out over the dash of the car.

“There are six hours before we get to Dallas. Coincidentally, I have six hours to decide if I want to jump out of a moving car or not,” Harry groans, running his hands through his disheveled mop of curls.

“That’s the spirit,” Niall says through a shit-eating grin.

 

 


	6. Better Than This

They arrive closer to seven hours later because they have to account for having another bladder in the car and Zayn drinks a lot of sweet tea. When they pull into the lot of the Motel 6, the place reeks of familiarity, despite the passage of time, nothing has changed. Harry thinks for moment that Texas is a bubble, trapped in a state of perpetual existence. Not a thing changes really. He hopes that maybe they will this time. For him.

The room is the same one from last year. There’s a black mark on the wall from Niall frying the electrical socket with a toaster and a stain on the carpet from when Harry dropped the strawberry milkshake Louis had made him. (And no, Harry most certainly did not cry when that happened. Even if he did, it was justifiable because Louis makes the best milkshakes in Texas.). It’s a single, queen sized bed because Harry and Niall have no concept of personal space and Zayn said he would sleep on the couch (“It’s cheaper that way.”). When it’s time to sleep, they all end up on the bed, cuddling each other despite the Dallas heat.

The boys give Harry a day to decide a plan of attack in regards to Adair’s.

“Do you want to ask if they need a band?” Niall mumbles with a foaming toothbrush in his mouth.

“Maybe you should just go up there and talk to him?” Zayn says, pulling on his ancient looking waistcoat. He insists on wearing the vest almost every day.

Harry bends over to tie his shoe, “I was thinking about getting a sky-writer to put my lyrics in the sky above Adair’s. ‘I wanna kiss your lips’ right there in the air. Think he’d like that.”

Harry looks up to see the two of them glaring at him.

“I’m holding you to that,” say Niall.

“You know, I think there’s a phonebook in the drawer over here,” Zayn proclaims, heading towards the bedside table, “Nope, just a King James Edition.”

“You better thank your lucky stars Jesus wasn’t a sky-writer otherwise we would be calling the Son of God asking him to write your sad-ass declarations in the clouds.”

 

They decide to go ahead and try and get a performance at the place, since that’s what Harry is the most comfortable with. It’s about 12 o’clock in the afternoon when they arrive at Adair’s and the sun is right above so the place is lit with the warm lights hanging off the ceiling. It’s just as Harry remembered it, but the person at the bar is a woman in her mid-20s, with long, brown hair and eyes sharp like a mountain lion’s.

“Hey there, I’m Jesy. What can I do for y’all?” She asks, leaning on the counter at them, face resting on her hands.

Harry can’t help himself, “Where’s Lou--”

Niall presses his hand against Harry’s stomach, halting his speech.

“We’re here to see about performing. Got any spots to fill?” Niall asks in an overtly flirtatious tone.

“Sure hon, lemme go see about that. Y’all get comfortable and I’ll be right back.”

As she saunters away, the flannel shirt tied at her hips sways, and her roper boots slide across the floor.

Niall whistles quietly to himself, but loud enough for his friends to hear.

“I’ll tell ya, even if we don’t get what we came for, at least we got that.”

“Niall, don’t be such a pervert,” Harry mutters.

“I’m not,” he says, though the tone of his voice says he’s not sure, “I’m just appreciating how well genetics seemed to work out for her.”

Jesy comes back not a minute later with a clipboard in hand.

“Alright, looks like we have a few openings this week if y’all are willing to have a few day time slots.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Yes.” Niall practically shouts.

Jesy smiles a million dollar smile, “That’s great, but I will need to hear some stuff first.” She reaches out to poke Niall’s nose. “Just to be sure you’re up to snuff.”

Zayn speaks up, “We brought our things. Harry, will you go get them out of the car?”

Harry nods and makes toward the door.

He thinks he hears Jesy whisper, “Did you say ‘Harry’?” before he walks outside into the hot, Texas sun.

When Harry comes back inside, instruments in tow, he sees Jesy, Niall, and Zayn all huddled over the bar in what looks to be a serious conversation.

“I can’t wait to tell L--,” Jesy squeals before Zayn nudges her arm, cutting her off.

“What are y’all talking about?” Harry asks, feeling a little left out despite himself.

“Nothing big. Just the smallest talk here,” Jesy says with a grin and a wink. “Alright, you all get going, I’m ready when you are.”

They all assemble themselves into cohesion and pluck the first few notes of “Never Going Back Again” before Niall counts them off. It’s an ambitious song, especially for an audition of sorts, but Fleetwood Mac is one of their favorites so it’s mostly about enjoying the act of it. The handful of patrons in the bar stop talking and listen as Harry sings.

_She broke down and let me in_

_Made me see where I've been_

_Been down one time_

_Been down two times_

_I'm never going back again_

_You don't know what it means to win_

_Come down and see me again_

_Been down one time_

_Been down two times_

_I'm never going back again_

Then it’s over and they’re looking at Jesy for her reaction. She looks shocked. It’s a solid three minutes of wordlessness and making eye contact with each of them before she speaks, aligning the papers on the clipboard in her hands.

“I’ll see y’all tonight. I’ll let the other band know.”

“Wait, what? No, no, we can come tomorrow. There’s no need to turn anyone away,” Harry implores.

“Listen hon, I’ve managed this place for three years now. I know what I’m about and I most certainly know what Adair’s is about. Y’all are it. I will see you tonight. Now go.” Jesy says with finality as she pushes them out the door.

 

 


	7. Somebody's Heartbreak

“Bolo or no?” Niall asks the room.

“No,” Harry and Zayn simultaneously.

“Fine, then y’all should’ve stopped me from buying it in the first place.”

“We tried,” they harmonize again.

“Whatever,” Niall huffs, storming back into the bathroom.

“No matter how many times we explain appropriation to him, it doesn’t seem to click, Harry. I don’t get it,” Zayn sighs exasperatedly as he combs through his sleek hair.

“We can’t give up. He’ll figure it out eventually. Anyway, how many buttons?”

“Seriously?”

Harry nods.

“I know you want me to say none, but that’s not going to happen. You need at least three buttoned before you go out in public. You are not a display, Harry,” Zayn says as he buttons Harry’s red and navy plaid shirt.

“I just like my tattoos. I’m pretty proud of them, y’know.”

“I know. But, Harry, at least three buttons, okay?”

“Okay.”

Harry tucks his shirt into his tight Wranglers and fastens his belt buckle. He’s sitting on the bed, slipping into his worn boots when Niall walks out of the bathroom.

“Y’all ready to go?”

They are.

********

Adair’s is packed on their first night back and Harry’s skin is itching - though that might just be the fairly new tattoo sitting prettily on his hip - as he quickly takes stock of the room, definitely not looking for a spritely bartender whose laughter has been echoing in his head since he left over a year ago.

Niall and Zayn flank his sides, armed with their instruments -- Marianne tucked in at home while Zayn just lets Franny rest at his side. Harry takes a deep breath before striding to the stage, no need to ask this time, and starts to unpack his guitar.

He probably should’ve asked the other boys if they wanted a drink first but, they’ll be here all night so there’s plenty of time to do some damage.

They open with a standard for them, “Creepin In” by Norah Jones and Dolly Parton and it’s an easy melody. It lures you in like a freshly baked pie on a windowsill. Niall picks his way through the chorus, Zayn beats on the wood box drum, and Harry strums Miguel while they all sing together.

_There's a big ol' hole_

_That's gone right through the sole_

_Of this old shoe_

_And the water on the ground_

_Ain't got no place else it found_

_So it's only got one thing left to do_

_Creep on in_

_Creep on in_

_And once it has begun_

_Won't stop until it's done_

_Sneaking in_

Their abrupt arrival and subsequent performance seems to throw everyone in the bar for a loop. Still, when the song is over, there is tremendous (albeit, drunken) applause. It feels good, but most of all Harry is glad he’s not alone in the spotlight. He feels comfortable with his friends at his side and he thinks they all shine brighter together. He’s afraid to admit it to himself, but he worries if he’ll ever be able to perform by himself again. The vulnerability of performing alone is terrifying, especially if it’s one of his own songs. But he pushes these thoughts aside for another day--they are thoughts for a shower when you’re washing your hair and your fingers are pruny, not when you’re standing before an audience.

Harry feels a buzz in his veins and he knows it’s good to be back here again. When he looks back at his bandmates, he can tell they are feeling the same thrill. Performing will always feel new and exciting no matter how many times you’ve done the same set. They decided beforehand that if they were received well, they would play one of Harry’s songs. He needs a positive audience before putting himself out there and besides, he’s pretty sure Louis doesn’t even work here anymore so what could go wrong?

So when Harry sings the opening bars of “Somebody’s Heartbreak”, the last thing he expects is Louis Tomlinson to walk through the front door and meet his eyes.

_I'd love to know just what you're thinkin'_

_Every little river, runnin' through your mind_

He misses the next chord.

_You give and you take_

_You come and you go_

His palms are sweating.

_You leave me here wonderin' if I'll ever know_

_How much you care or how much you don't_

_Whatever you need, whatever you want_

His whole body is sweating. Why are these lights so hot?

_If you're gonna be somebody's heartbreak_

_If you're gonna be somebody's mistake_

_If you're gonna be somebody's first time,_

_Somebody's last time, baby be mine_

Harry literally cannot remember if he even put on deodorant. This is horrible and somehow he’s still singing. He comes back to himself and hears Zayn and Niall harmonizing behind him as if the world didn’t just shake and tilt off its axis.

_If you're lookin' to be somebody's 'just friends',_

_A little laughin', little lovin', never callin' again, that's just fine_

_If you're gonna be somebody's heartbreak_

_Be mine, yeah_

_Oh, be mine_

As they finish the song, Harry wonders how many hearts Louis has broken. What is his place in line? Is this covered in his insurance plan? These are the questions he thinks as he watches Louis tie a black waist apron around his middle and walk behind the bar. Harry is so entranced by watching him wash his hands and take someone’s order, he almost misses the next song entirely, joining in four bars late. Thankfully, Zayn vocals for this one so Harry goes to have a seat on the box drum as Zayn takes the mic up front.

Harry goes through the rest of the set with a minimal amount of consciousness. He thanks God for muscle memory as he plays the rest of their chosen songs. Appropriately enough, they conclude their performance with a Dixie Chicks song. Zayn picks up his fiddle and opens with a melodic air emitting from Franny’s strings.

_Should have been different, but it wasn't different_

_Was the same old story, dear John and so long_

_Should have fit like a glove, should have fit like a ring_

_Like a diamond ring, token of true love_

_Should have all worked out, but it didn't_

_She should be here now, but she isn't_

_There's your trouble, there's your trouble_

_Seeing double with the wrong one_

_And you can't see I love you, you can't see she doesn't_

_But you just keep a holding on, there's your trouble_

When they’re finished for the night, Zayn takes the amps and their instruments and places them in the trunk of the car. Harry and Niall make their way toward the bar but are stopped by a hand  on Harry’s shoulder. He startles and turns around to see a familiar face.

“Liam!” Harry practically squeals. He met  Liam last year through Louis since the two live together. “How are you, man?”

Liam sways a bit , probably a few too many beers but he responds in earnest when he says ,” I am absolutely great, Harry. Ab-so-lute-ly great.”

Harry chuckles brightly at that. He  absolutely missed Liam and his relentlessly effervescent personality. Liam is the most cheerful person he’s ever met and  he remembers  a few times when he and Louis would compete to see who could make Liam happier, if only for the squinty eyed grin they got in return. Harry’s not saying the competition involved alcohol every time but Harry’s always been bad at percentages.

He’s still laughing when he sees Niall standing next to him, at the bar waiting for Louis to come take his order.

“Liam, you remember Niall, my roommate. “

Liam shoots his hand out in front of him, shaking hands with Niall and then rocking back on his heels. He stands, hands in his pockets now as he smiles at the boys, cheeks pushing up and eyes squinting.

“It was a great set, guys.” Liam says, kind eyes looking over Harry’s head, as if searching for someone or something.

At that moment, Zayn walks back in and joins them. Smiling as he takes in the new people around him.

“Alright, who wants liquor? “ Louis says , finally walking over to where they stand at the bar. Harry is momentarily frozen because he hasn’t heard this voice in so long. Just like everything about this place, it’s just like he remembers.

When Louis meets his gaze, Harry feels that pull again in his gut. All of these feelings he relates to Louis that he thought were forgotten are coming back now all at once. It’s overwhelming, to say the least.

“You alright, babe?” Louis asks, wiping his hands on his apron.

Harry is about to pass out.  He knows the symptoms. He’s been on Web MD before. Memories of last year flood through his mind.

That first week when Harry was still remembering how to navigate Dallas, so Louis helped him find a map. Louis burning the map when Harry got too frustrated. Louis buying Harry a new (albeit, very cheap) GPS as an early, early birthday present and then explaining how to turn it on and all those complex things.

The second week when Harry remembered how horrible allergies can be in the dusty Texas atmosphere and he showed up at the bar clutching a box of tissues. Louis laughing loudly the whole night as Harry sniffled and snorted his way through a couple Patsy Cline songs before the customers sniffed him off the stage.  Louis brought him a pocket-warm cherry cough drop the next day.

The third week when Louis had to stay home and take care of his sister because she had a cold.

“I swear to God, Harry, if you got my sister sick, I will never make you a milkshake again.”

After his performance that night, Harry left early to  go to Walgreens. He called his mom and asked for the best cold remedies and he bought all of them. He drove back to Adair’s and left them in the  breakroom.

There was a strawberry milkshake waiting for him on the counter the next day. Pink and frosty and completely his.

That was his June. Filled with strawberry milkshakes and beer and music. And Louis.

July was hot. The windows  of the joint fogged with heat exhaustion and lazy summer air. Louis wore thinner shirts. Adair’s was packed every night because in Texas, the air gets thicker and the liquor goes quicker. Or at least that’s what Louis said, whenever he begged Harry to make  a run to the store for some more  Jack Daniels.  

“Harry. I could literally kiss you.” Louis yelled over the  loud patrons who were practically crawling on the bar for a drink of cool beer.  Harry bought three bottles of Daniels and had one more in the car but he wanted to share that one with Louis.  He thought it would be nice after a long day at work.

It was mid-morning when they left Adair’s and headed out in Harry’s truck towards Klyde Warden Park. They lay in the grass taking turns nursing the bottle of Daniels as the sun rose around them. They got heartily drunk.

Louis had turned to Harry and said, “I meant it you know” and he rolled on his side and kissed an alarmed Harry Styles on the mouth. Louis then promptly fell asleep, spread-eagled on the lawn, the kiss undoubtedly forgotten.

August smelled like warm pecans and felt like pining. Louis invited Harry and Niall over to his apartment for a home-cooked meal.  When they arrived, they found Louis lounging on the couch next to Liam and no food in the kitchen.

“When I said ‘home-cooked’, I meant you do the cooking in my home.”

Harry made pasta and his mom’s pecan pie.  Niall brought tequila. They all took shots and Harry wondered how drunk Louis would have to be before he was willing to kiss him again.

It was a lot for three months, and it happens all over again when Louis says Harry’s name.

Someone snaps a finger in front of Harry’s face and he’s brought back to the present. He was staring for sure and Louis was most certainly aware of that.  

“Harry? You alright? It’s good to see you. Can I get you a Bud? I know you like those,” Louis says gently. He looks concerned.

Harry speaks.

“Yeah, yeah, a Bud would be good. Thanks, Lou.”

Louis smiles warmly as he turns to get a bottle from under the bar. When he comes back, he hands Harry the cool drink and their hands brush. Harry melts a little bit more in the summer heat. A Top 40 song comes on the radio and Louis just nods along, smiling  at Harry and Niall, familiarity in the air as he wipes his hands on the small towel draped over his shoulder.

“You alright?” He asks Harry again, more quietly this time.

Harry is about to say  something but Niall speaks first.

“‘Course. It’s always good to be back in Dallas, right Harry?” Niall replies, smiling wickedly over at the curly-haired boy. “Especially ‘cause we’ve got such great friends here.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Niall, then an arm slings over his shoulders and a short laugh echoes in his ear. His eyes land on Zayn, who can’t seem to shake a small smile from his face. Zayn nods over at Louis and Liam in greeting, he's a couple of drinks in having accepted a glass from a patron in the middle of their set. The liquor seems to make him forgetful of his manners, not offering a hand to shake.

“Hi” he says instead, grin growing strong.

Harry smiles at him before turning back to Louis and Liam, “This is Zayn, our fiddle player.”

“The third musketeer, if you will.” Niall adds.

“We will not.” Harry replies, shaking his head. “Zayn, this is Louis, the bartender here at Adair’s and this is his roommate, Liam.”

When Zayn smiles at them, the response should be easy enough -- a smile in return, like Louis does -- but Harry watches as Liam shuffles nervously, not meeting Zayn’s eye as he rubs the back of his neck before bending his large frame forward in a half-bow, half- squat move, leaving everyone looking confused and a little concerned. He watches as Louis leans over to Liam when he’s finally righted himself, hand on the taller boy’s shoulder.

“Did you just curtsy?” Louis whispers through his laughter.

“Shut up.” Liam whispers back, his cheeks red as cherry pie.

Harry grins and looks over at Louis instinctively and holds his gaze longer than he should. He’s still staring when Louis speaks again.

“So what brings y’all here?” He’s smiling when he turns to face Harry, “Strawberry milkshakes must be shit in Nashville, but I mean, I can’t blame you for crawling back.”

Harry takes the Stetson from his head and runs a hand through his curls, a shy smile gracing his lips as he looks at him.

“You’re not wrong, Lou,” Niall speaks up, “The poor boy went to every damn restaurant in the city trying for something as good. Had so many milkshakes, he’s probably lactose intolerant now.”

Louis looks offended, “I can’t believe you cheated on me, Haz. Jack In The Box can’t treat you nearly as well as I do. No milkshake is nearly as fulfilling as mine.”

There’s a part (a fairly large part) of Harry that wishes they were talking about something else. He Mad Libs the conversation in his head and suddenly milkshakes are lovers. He blushes and takes a particularly long pull from his beer.

His red face does not go unseen apparently because he feels Niall and Zayn pinch his side from where they’re standing. He swats them away like fruit flies.

“No one can fill me like you, Lou.” Harry says before he realizes what that must sound like.

Niall and Liam do a spit take, spewing their drinks on the counter as Harry frantically tries to recover.

“I-I I mean, uhh, milkshakes are pretty filling.. there’s a lot of fat content and uh--they can ruin your dinner--”

“I know exactly what you mean, Harry.” Louis stops him with a cheeky smile, “Can’t imagine ruining your dinner, y’know?”

He winks at Harry and walks back toward the customers calling for him.

He winked. What does that mean? No. Harry refuses to think about this. At least not while he’s in front of people. He asks God why he has no self-control. He doesn’t get a reply.

“What the fuck, Harry? I mean, shit, didn’t think you had it in you, y’know? Shit,” Niall is stuck between uproarious laughter and silent shock.

Harry spots the bottle of Everclear and is about to jump the counter to claim the whole thing as his own. His hands are lifting him up on the bar when Zayn sees where his eyes are set and pulls him back down.

“Calm down, mijo,” Zayn coos. “Everyone says crazy shit sometimes. Louis’s a bartender. He makes a salary off of listening to crazy shit.”

“Zayn’s right,” Liam speaks up, “And besides, it’s not like you meant it. You don’t even like Louis that way.”

The three of them can’t help but stare at Liam dumbfoundedly as he shrugs and takes a sip of beer gazing off in the distance. When he faces them, realization seems to set in.

“Wait, do you?” He asks secretly, leaning his body towards the other boys.

Their silent, open-mouthed stares answer him. Liam lets out a short shout of a laugh.

"Not all of us curtsy when we see someone we like, Liam," Niall practically growls.

Liam ignores it, still reeling from his realization.

“I can’t believe it! This is great. This is really great, ohhh man. Oh my god. Oh my God! This explains a lot. I can’t believe I didn’t see it, ooohh myyy goooooddd,” Liam draws out the last sentence until it runs into Harry’s.

“Please don’t tell him, Liam. Please. I don’t even know if he likes--uh--men, or anything. I don’t want him to be afraid to talk to me. Please don’t tell him,,” Harry’s words are running fast and he hopes Liam catches them.

“Harry,” Liam places a warm hand on Harry’s shaking shoulder. “It’s okay. I would never do that and it’s none of my business anyway. But if you’re worried about scaring Louis away, don’t be.”

Liam seems to taste his next words before he shares them, “You’d be surprised how open he is to, uh, affection.”

Harry needs at least three more beers, and whiskey. He’s visibly relieved when Jesy is the one that asks if they need anything else to drink.

The rest of the night tastes like smoke from Zayn’s cigarettes and secondhand embarrassment. Harry spends the whole time taking sips from unguarded drinks and trying  desperately (and unsuccessfully) not to look at Louis.


	8. Light Me Up

The fact that Harry makes it through that night is a testament to his outstanding moral character. Also to the many outstanding attributes of alcohol.

When he wakes up in the early morning feeling like his bladder is about to explode, he’s forgotten about everything except how to aim for the toilet. It's only when he goes back to bed and is nuzzling into Niall's shoulder does he remember the magnitude of his drunken faux pas at Adair's. The reason it was so horribly embarrassing is because Harry wasn't even that drunk. He only had one beer before making a thinly veiled comment about Louis's dick.

Harry wonders if he'll ever sleep again, so he googles the symptoms of Tourette's. He's halfway through the Wikipedia page before he feels guilty about trying to blame a condition he definitely doesn't have on his inability to contain his spectacularly impressive desire to be with Louis Tomlinson. Some of it is on alcohol, sure, but Harry knows who is the most at fault here.

Louis, with his small stature and big presence, is going to be the death of him. Louis, Harry decides, is a hurricane.

_He rolled in from the west in the summer sun_

_Dressed hotter than the heat in July_

_With his wind blown hair it just wasn't fair_

_The way he was blowin' my mind_

_Have you ever noticed every hurricane_

_Gets it's name from a boy like this?_

_He's a cat 5 kind keeps you up at night_

_Hangin' on to the end of a kiss_

The newly formed lyrics make their way from Harry's throbbing head to his shaking hand as he pens them down in his impossibly bent journal.

He's about to force himself back to sleep when his phone buzzes with a new notification. It's a text from an unknown number.

"Come outside.x"

Harry is too hungover to question himself as he pulls on jeans and his boots and slides his arms through a thin flannel shirt. It's still unbuttoned as he opens the door and looks out over the railing of the Motel 6. He sees a dirt covered white Ford F150 that wasn't there last night, somehow tripled parked in the lot. It's still dark outside and so when the truck's lights shut off, Harry sees spots for a few seconds before a form comes into focus.

"Good mornin', sunshine! Sleep well?"

Louis Tomlinson is leaning against the hood of his truck, drinking what looks to be Minute Maid apple juice.

"What are you doing here?" Harry slurs out, projecting as best he can.

Louis places a hand on his heart and pulls a face, appearing to be offended.

"I couldn't sleep so I figured I'd come see if you wanted to reenact the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet with me."

"Really?"

"No. But if you stay up there any longer, I may not have a choice but to start soliliquisin' you," Louis says as he replaces the cap to his juice and turns back towards the driver's side door. He probably assumes Harry is going to follow him.

He does. In fact, Harry practically tumbles down the stairs and into the passenger's seat. Louis looks at him in mild disgust.

"What is that smell?" He says, making an elaborate effort to hold his nose.

"Hmm? What smell?" Harry sniffs himself in every possible way until pinpointing the source of the stench. His boots. He forgot about throwing up on them.

"Get those off. That is horrible, Harry. And I work in a bar."

"I didn't bring any other shoes with me, though." Harry says, voice inexplicably pleading.

"Then it's a good thing we're going to Cavender's isn't it?"

"We are?"

Louis nods, "No one should ever have to wear boots that decrepit, Harry. It's a crime against humanity. We're going to Cavender's Boot City--"

Harry's grumbling stomach rudely interrupts him.

"--but we're getting you some food first." Louis says patting Harry's still exposed tummy.

Harry blushes and starts buttoning his shirt, "It's still really early, I don't think anything is open."

Louis gasps.

"Did you forget about Denny's when you were in Nashville? I am personally offended for the establishment."

Harry groans. Denny's sounds simultaneously like a nightmare and a dream right now. And yet, when they pull into the parking lot, Harry is moving quickly to unbuckle himself. An All-American Slam is on the not-so-distant horizon. Louis stops him before he opens the door.

"You can't go in there with those boots on. Denny's already smells but you don't want them to go out of business because of you, do you?"

Harry begins to take them off when he realizes, "No shoes, no shirt, no service, Lou. I can't go in without shoes. I have to wear them."

"No you don't. I have an old pair in the back," he says while reaching behind him, presenting Harry with a pair of boots at least a size too small.

"Those are gonna be too small, uh, for me I think."

"I've never gotten any complaints before," Louis says with a smirk. "Now see if they fit on your flippers."

They don't. Not really, at least. It's a tight fit in the feet and very loose around the calves. They kind of seem to crumple and bend when Harry tries to lean into them.

"I can't wear these, Lou."

Louis lets out a sigh.

"Well," he says, folding his hands, "the way I see it is you've got two options: I can roll down the windows and leave you in here like a toddler. Or--and this is the one I suggest--you can put those boots on your feet and we can eat breakfast together like the grown up men we are."

Harry is practically walking on boots as the waitress shows them a table. He slips them off as soon as his feet are under the booth. Once they've ordered, Louis begins to tell him about all the things Harry missed when he was back in Nashville.

"You wouldn't believe how big Lux is now" and "I swear, Jesy breaks a new heart everyday" and "Everyone missed you, except me of course."

Harry shovels the food in, deciding in his mind that if the pieces of buttery Texas Toast before him are feelings, he's going to eat them all. It's satisfying and sickening at the same time. Denny's always gives you too much.

Soon they're leaving and then Louis is driving to Cavender's Boot City and Harry feels slightly less like a corpse.

They figure no one can deny service to a shoeless person in a shoe store, so Harry goes in the store with only socks on his feet, Louis' boots left in the truck. It comes down to a distressed round toe and a black gator square toe. Louis says the obvious choice is the gator ("If you're gonna spend that much money on a pair of shoes, they might as well look new.").

Harry walks out of the store in shiny, black boots that seem to glitter in the now risen Texas sun. He slips a bit and lands on the ground, having forgotten about breaking new boots in since he's had the same pair for the past three years. Louis pulls out a piece of sandpaper that seemed to materialize from thin air, sits on the concrete next to Harry, and motions for Harry's booted feet. Harry is left breathless by the intimacy of the action. He watches as Louis works, holding Harry's feet in his lap with his hair falling over his brow, tongue sticking out of his mouth a little in determination as he moves the sandpaper to and fro over the sole of Harry's shoes. It tickles and makes Harry feel numb in his toes, but maybe that's just being with Louis.

When they're both satisfied with Louis' work, they get back into the car and head back to Motel 6 with plans of getting Zayn and Niall and meeting Liam at the State Fair.

They're waiting in the truck when Louis turns to Harry and says with utmost sadness in his voice, "I don't know how to tell you this, but, Big Tex burned down."

"What?" Harry practically screams, his eyes wide.

"It's true. The big man burned down. Mothers wept, children screamed, the whole deal."

"I can't believe that, I mean he's been there forever. That is horrible. Maybe we should wear black to the fair? In memoriam?" Harry suggests.

Louis snorts, "That is not a bad idea. Go up and get changed. Bring me something black, please and thank you."

 

Harry comes back shortly, clutching a black tee, Zayn and Niall following at his shiny new heels.

“Shotgun!” Niall yells as he runs down the stairs towards Louis’ truck. He practically propels himself into the passenger’s seat while Zayn and Harry are stuffed into the back. Harry’s long legs are folded and squished up against the back of Louis’ chair as he hands him his shirt.

“It’s the only other one I have. Sorry about the lack of selection.”

“Nonsense,” Louis says while he lifts his arms to remove his shirt, leaving his torso bare. Harry’s line of vision is blocked by the driver’s seat and he knows looking in the rearview mirror means highly probable eye contact with a now shirtless Louis. He looks anyway and is met with a wink. Are these winks supposed to mean something? Or is Louis just being himself? Harry looks away, blushing lightly.

Now clothed, Louis turns the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot, headed towards the State Fair, or most recently, the resting place of Big Tex. It’s a solemn drive until Niall begins to list all of the food he plans on eating.

“Of course there will be deep-fried fat at this,” Zayn laughs when Niall mentions deep-fried butter.

“Don’t knock it till you try it, y’city slicker,” Niall says with a self-satisfied grin.

“I’ll try it, but only if you buy me a whole funnel cake to wash it down with.”

Niall reaches around his seat and shakes Zayn’s hand.

“Deal.”

Harry’s stomach feels sick at just the thought of all this food and says as much. Louis chuckles from the front.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to. The lemonade is pretty good, though,” Louis assures him. “And besides we can just walk around and look at the exhibits, maybe ride a few rides. It’ll be good.”

Harry feels a little better.

 

But that is short lived because soon, Louis is pushing him onto the biggest ferris wheel in the United States, The Texas Star.

“Really, Louis. I hate heights. Can’t we go look at the “Birds of the World” exhibit? I like birds. Hate heights, but I like birds,” Harry begs, the heels of his new boots digging into the dirt.

“It’s gonna be okay. I’m here. The world wouldn’t let anything happen without my permission.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. A kid already dropped ice cream on your foot.”

“Well, how do you know I didn’t allow that to happen?” Louis asks with an air of superiority.

Harry just groans in response, “Please don’t make me do this.”

“I’m making you do this,” Louis says, giving him one final push into the metal death trap.

Harry is shaking as the wheel begins to spin even though it is going painfully slow. He’s bouncing his knee when Louis reaches a hand out to still it. Harry’s gonna be sick.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he says.

“No, you’re not. Look,” Louis stretches out his other hand, gesturing to something outside the gondola.

The sky is a palette of pinks and purples and blues melting into a dandelion sun. It’s a beautiful sunset and Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Told you,” Louis smiles.

“I forgot… I forgot how much more it is here. I mean Tennessee is nice, but… Wow. I, uh, missed this, I think.”

They sit and watch from their gondola for a quiet moment, the air crisp with the approaching night. When it happens, it’s so soft and quiet, Harry almost doesn’t catch it.

“I missed you,” Louis says, barely above a whisper, as he continues to look out at the sherbert sky.

Harry blames the Texas wind for the thin veil of tears that cloud his eye. He takes a deep breath and sighs.

“I missed you too, Lou.”

Slightly louder now, Louis asks, “So why did you leave?”

A heart tears in two beneath Harry’s shirt. He knows the reason and it’s sitting right next to him. For some reason though, the idea of telling someone you fled the state because you care so much--too much--about them is ridiculous and a horse pill; tough to swallow. Harry’s written enough about things to know how he feels. He knows that he loves Louis and that he is probably (but most definitely) in love with him. But, Christ that is a burden that no one should be left to bear. Harry would like to be a lake, content to let the sun shine on him, warming him until he is dry and gone; an empty lake bed with nothing but lost shoes and messages in a bottles to show for its existence. Louis can be the sun. There’s simply no way of phrasing that proposition.

“I felt stagnant. I was a lake here.”

“And here I was thinking you were a frog,” Louis pats Harry’s face.

Harry smiles a smile that he hopes only he knows is sad and lets out a ribbit. Louis giggles into his small hand. The moment’s over.

“Well,” Louis says, rubbing his hands together, “At least you’re back for a while. God only knows how thankful Jesy is for a decent band.”

“You think we’re decent?”

“I said no such thing. I am simply repeating her words.”

Harry side-eyes the hell out of Louis when he speaks, “And I’m sure you haven’t enjoyed one song we’ve played, huh?”

“Not a one. You can’t change me, Styles. I’m my own man.”

“You are the pinnacle of musical virtue,” Harry says with as much sarcasm he can squeeze into one sentence.

Louis is still defending himself from Harry’s heathenistic country influence when the Ferris wheel touches back down. They climb out carefully and make their way back into the slowly bustling crowds of the fair. Following the scent of grease and fried dough, they happen upon Niall, Zayn, and Liam stuck deciding between the pork ribs and fried cheesecake stands.

“I think it would be better if we had some protein before we eat anything else,” Liam posits.

“Cheesecake has protein,” Niall argues, pushing the two boys towards the dessert booth.

Rolling his eyes as he sees Harry and Louis approaching, Zayn says, “We can get both, y’all need to chill out.”

Liam and Niall split up and conquer the two stands while Zayn looks on with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Wranglers.

“It’s been like this the whole time. First with the fried pickles and then the fried Oreos,” Zayn whimpers, somewhat pained, “I think I’m going to die, but also I can’t stop. Please say something nice at my funeral.”

“Of course, doll. Consider the eulogy written,” Harry says, rubbing some comfort into Zayn’s back.

 

 


	9. If You Told Me To

Later that night at Adair’s, Zayn and Niall seem to be made of ninety percent grease and ten percent Coca Cola. Harry, having foregone the fair food in favor of the Ferris wheel, gets caught up in the rush of a Fleetwood Mac song and tosses his hat somewhere into the crowd. When he sees a strange woman wearing his Stetson he stops in the middle of “Second Hand News”, with his lips pressed against the mic, he says, “I will be needing that back, if y’all don’t mind.”

Unfortunately, for Harry, liquor in the blood is an excellent way to forget to grab your favorite hat back from whoever had it last. It’s not until Harry is in the shower later that he remembers his head felt surprisingly light on the drive back to the motel. He barely gets a towel wrapped around his waist before he crashes into the room where Niall and Zayn lounge on the bed.

“Where is my hat? Have you seen it?” Harry cries, shampoo dripping from wet ringlets.

“Ah, no? I haven’t, but I’m pretty sure you left it at the bar.” Niall says, “I can drive you down there if you want.”

“No, I’ll go, I bet Jesy’s still there. She’ll let me in. Gimme your keys.”

“You know we’re going back tomorrow. Can’t this wait?” Zayn asks as he punches a pillow into a more comfortable shape.

Harry forgoes underwear in his rush and pulls on his jeans and and a t-shirt off the floor. He doesn’t have time for shoes as he answers, “I’m going now. I’ll be back.”

He speeds down the highway and a part of him wonders why the urgency, but he ignores that easily. Adrenaline in whatever dose is a very powerful thing. Harry nearly forgets to kill the headlights as he parks the Chevy in the street in front of Adair’s.

Good, Harry thinks, There’s still a light on.

He’s about to open the door when he hears it.

God, I feel like hell tonight

Tears of rage I cannot fight

I'd be the last to help you understand

Are you strong enough to be my man, my man?

He pauses. Jesy hates Sheryl Crow, so why would she be listening to “Strong Enough”?

_Nothing's true and nothing's right_

_So let me be alone tonight_

_Cause you can't change the way I am_

_Are you strong enough to be my man?_

Harry’s heart just about shits its pants.

_Lie to me_

_I promise I'll believe_

_Lie to me_

_But please don't leave, don't leave_

Louis is dancing around the floor of Adair’s, mopping and singing his own botched lyrics along with Sheryl Crow as her song plays from the speakers of what Harry assumes is Louis’ iPhone.

_I have a face I cannot show_

_I make the rules up as I go_

_Just try and love me if you can_

_Are you strong enough to be my man, my man?_

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers, “ _And you say you're too cool for country_.”

The song ends and Louis throws the mop into the closet and pockets his phone. He walks into the break room and Harry can’t breathe for giggling so hard. He’s practically squealing but he knows if Louis sees him, Harry will probably be six feet under within the hour. Quietly, he gets back into the truck, hat forgotten, and makes his way back to the motel where he relays the story to his friends.

They practice Sheryl Crow songs all night until Zayn and Niall finally succumb to fair food exhaustion.

 

It’s twilight when the boys begin to play. There are a few stars faintly visible through the glass despite the bright street lamps outside. The air is warm and there is a gentle murmur of conversation slowly pulsing through the bar. For all intents and purposes, it's a lovely night.

Harry, dressed in a thin, cotton button down and his light wash Wranglers, saddles up to the mic. He smiles gently, his eyes glistening in the soft lighting as he finds Louis at the bar and he begins to speak.

“Nice night tonight, isn’t it? I hope y’all are feelin’ alright. This first song is pretty special to me, but,” Harry looks around and catches Louis’ eye, “I had kind of forgotten about it until last night. So, uh, here’s “Strong Enough”.”

Harry hears the sound of a glass dropping to the floor over by the bar area and he grins, dimples strong, as he plays the first few notes. He’s fighting to keep from laughing when he sings.

_God, I feel like hell tonight_

_Tears of rage I cannot fight_

_I'd be the last to help you understand_

_Are you strong enough to be my man, my man?_

The three of them give it their all, but they end up doubled over, practically in tears as Louis shouts from the bar, “I WILL KILL YOU, HARRY STYLES.”

Harry is laughing so hard, he doesn’t realize what he’s singing before it’s already out of his mouth.

_Are you strong enough to be my man?_

_Yes I’m strong enough to be your man._

_Are you strong? I am._

He looks around at the crowd to see if anyone noticed the lyric change and everyone is still pinching their sides in laughter. Except for Louis. Harry swallows and his hands suddenly still on Miguel’s strings because Louis is looking right at him, piercing him through the dark, sweaty air. He finishes the song.

_Are you strong? I am._

There’s a loud round of applause and Niall and Zayn take a bow, but Harry is frozen in place. He sways lightly on his stool when Niall places a hand on his shoulder.

“You alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry clears his throat and turns to face his friend. He sees a pale, green face looking back at him, “Shit, Niall. Are you alright? You look awful.”

“Feel kind of awful. Zayn too.”

Harry looks over to see the poor man sitting on the wooden box drum with his head in his hands.

“What happened?”

“I don’t,” Niall pauses to burp (or maybe vomit), “think you understand how much fried food we ate yesterday.”

“Y’all should go back to the motel. Are you okay to drive?”

“Harry, we’re gonna stay here and finish the show with you,” Zayn whines through his hands.

“Like hell you are. We can’t afford new equipment if y’all decide to throw up on it. Get out of here,” Harry gently leads them to the door, walks them to the truck, and buckles them both in.

“If you remember, text me when you get there,” he says, kissing each of them on the forehead. They mumble something that sounds like “Okay” before Harry softly closes the doors.

Harry stands on the curb smiling quietly at himself before he realizes the gravity of the situation he just put himself in. He has to go back inside now and perform. By himself. He hasn’t done that since last year; in Nashville, Harry always had either Niall or Zayn or both at his side when he sang. They're a security blanket he forgot he needed and now they’re gone and the show must go on. Shaking slightly, Harry pushes through the door and mentally combs through his repertoire of solo songs. Almost all of them call for some form of two or three part harmony and another instrument. There’s no way he could sing a Dixie Chicks song without his boys, he’s not in the mood for Cash, and frankly he can’t think of anyone else right now because his brain is moving one hundred miles per hour and crawling to a stop at the same time. Only one song comes to mind, clear and sweet and entirely too fresh of a wound to even consider. And yet, when Harry sits down at the stool in front of the mic, he finds himself saying, “I wrote this about a year ago today and it’s a little bit of a slow one,” he closes his eyes, “but I’m hoping at least one of you will hear it and listen.”

_Well I've been searching for something true_

_My heart says it must be you_

_I'd love to fall and see it through_

_But only if you told me to_

_Well I'd run through the desert, I'd walk through the rain_

_Get you into trouble, and take all the blame_

_I'd paint you a picture, write you a song_

_And I'd do it all over if I did it all wrong_

_I don't wanna steal you away_

_Or make you change the things that you believe_

_I just wanna drink from the words you say_

_And be everything you need_

_Yeah I could be so good at loving you_

_But only if you told me to_

_I've seen a lot of good love go to waste_

_And I don't wanna look back on these days_

_Knowing all the things you'd never know_

_If I never said a word and let you go_

_I don't wanna steal you away_

_Or make you change the things that you believe_

_I just wanna drink from the words you say_

_And be everything you need_

_Yeah I could be so good at loving you_

_But only if you told me to_

_I don't wanna steal you away_

_Or make you change the things that you believe_

_I just wanna drink from the words you say_

_And be everything you need_

_Yeah I could be so good at loving you_

_But only if you told me to_

_Maybe this is something I'll never be_

_But I'll be right here till you tell me_

It’s quiet when he finishes and Harry expected his mind to be screaming, but all he feels is peace and a sense of calm that sends a shiver down his body. He’s never played that song for anyone before. Without realizing it, Harry played the whole song with his eyes closed. When he opens them, the lights are blinding, but it doesn’t hurt. Adair’s looks dark and Harry thinks for a moment that no one is there until a form emerges from the darkness, illuminated gently in a veil of light. The first thing Harry sees are blue eyes coming towards him.

There’s a small hand reaching out to him and Harry’s sense of calm morphs quickly into panic. He remembers where he is and what he’s just done. He doesn’t remember anyone clapping. It was silent and so Harry knows everyone hated it and--and-- Louis. Oh Christ, how could Harry forget? He was never supposed to hear this. Harry can’t be here.

“I can’t be here,” Harry says, pulling off the strap of his guitar and setting the instrument on the ground, “I can’t be here. I have to go. I can’t be here.”

He’s pulling his hair and fighting tears and the panic bubbling just under his skin as he walks into the chill of the night.

 

 


	10. A Thing About You

The next thing he knows, he is sitting in a gondola in the Texas Star. He doesn’t remember how he got to the State Fair, but he’s here now and all he can feel is the lake breeze on his face and the slow beat of his heart. Goosebumps kiss his skin as the carriage rocks gently beneath him. He’s trying to breathe and with every minute it gets easier because he is getting higher and higher away from himself, the ground below, and Louis Tomlinson’s blue eyes.

He begins to sing, quietly, gently, to the stars above him.

_Think I broke the wings_

_Off that little songbird_

_And she's never gonna fly_

_To the top of the world_

_Now_

_To the top of the world_

_Cause everyone's singing_

_We just wanna be heard_

_Disappearing every day_

_Without so much as a word_

_Somehow?_

_Gonna grab a hold_

_Of that little songbird_

_And take her for a ride_

_To the top of the world_

_Right now_

_To the top of the world_

 

He falls asleep on the Ferris wheel and no one wakes him. He dreams of a lake and he watches the sun rise above it, painting something beautiful and magical.

“Son? Wake up, the Fair’s closed.”

Harry opens his eyes to a man in a custodial uniform.

“Hmm? What did you say?”

“Said the Fair’s closed, I'm done cleaning up. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here I’m afraid.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Lemme just--,” Harry moves to exit the gondola but he stumbles on his feet. The man catches him.

“You gonna be alright, son? Do you need to call someone?”

“Hmm? No, no, I’m fine. Thank you. Thanks.”

The man eyes him questioningly, “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Thank you.”

He walks away, leaving Harry standing there with the breeze gently tossing his shirt in the middle of the fair grounds.

A throat clears somewhere close and Harry starts. He turns his head and sees a small figure sitting on a nearby bench. He finds himself walking towards it.

“Louis?”

The boy looks up at him. Yes, he looks like a boy now, not the man Harry sees almost every day, laughing and joking as he pours shots, spilling tequila as he goes. No, this is a boy. Tired, puffy eyes and mussed hair in disarray around a face softened by the dim light of the moon. The night seems to have made him younger and older at the same time. He sounds ancient when he speaks.

“Harry.”

They look at each other for what feels like a tiny forever until Harry sits down next to him. Close, but far away. Everything is a contradiction right now and nothing has ever made sense before.

They sit in silence.

Harry is still waking up, from what, he’s not sure.

Louis is the first one to talk.

“You said a year ago that you would write me a song.”

Harry nods slowly, unsure where this is going, “I did.”

“The song you played tonight. Was that it?”

Harry looks at his hands, wondering if he could blame them somehow for getting him here. He’s about to glare at his feet when he feels a warm hand on his knee.

“Harry,” Louis says in a voice so gentle, Harry thinks his heart might break into a thousand pieces, "Was that my song?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters, eyes still cast downwards, “I shouldn’t have played it. I’m sorry.”

Louis doesn’t say anything for a long moment and he’s folding his hands in his lap with a soft smile when he says, “I liked it, y’know.”

A heart stops. Louis continues to speak.

“I don’t know exactly how many country songs I’ve heard in my life, but Harry, I swear to you I haven’t liked a single one before tonight. Even if it wasn’t for me or whatever, your song was beautiful and I liked it. I really, really did.”

“I wrote it,” Harry whispers.

“Hmm? I know, I was just saying how much I liked it.”

“No, I mean I wrote it for you. I, um," Harry pauses, his throat feels like it's burning when he says, "I think I-I love you, Louis.”

Harry thinks his heart is never going to work again, but his sweaty palms seem to indicate that at least his endocrine system is still up and running. Blood rushes to his head, muffling his ears so he can barely hear it when Louis says, “No shit.”

The next few seconds can only be categorized in senses. A breeze of sweet cologne and light beer, a flash of blue eyes, noses bumping together before lips touch. Warm air breathing into a sleep-red mouth and the kiss of eyelashes on skin. Louis is kissing him and that’s all he can feel. Years of evolution have lead to this moment. When Louis Tomlinson kisses Harry Styles and the human senses come alive, truly so that in this moment, they are experiencing the most important kiss in the history of all mankind. Or at least, that’s what Harry thinks when he smiles and leans into Louis as the Texas sun rises behind them.


End file.
